Part 4 (1/2)

XV.

WOODBRIDGE: _Nov._ 24, [1873].

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

A note from Mowbray to-day says 'I think I can report the Father really on the road to recovery.'

So, as I think you will be as glad to know this as I am, I write again over the Atlantic. And, after all, you mayn't be over the Atlantic, but in London itself! Donne would have told me: but I don't like to trouble him with Questions, or writing of any sort. If you be in London, you will hear somehow of all this matter: if in America, my Letter won't go in vain.

Mowbray wrote me some while ago of the Death of your Sister's Son in the Hunting-field. {38} Mowbray said, aged thirty, I think: I had no idea, so old: born when I was with Thackeray in Coram Street--(_Jorum_ Street, he called it) where I remember Mrs. Sartoris coming in her Brougham to bid him to Dinner, 1843.

I wrote to Annie Thackeray yesterday: politely telling her I couldn't relish her Old Kensington a quarter as much as her Village on the Cliff: which, however, I doat on. I still purpose to read Miss Evans: but my Instincts are against her--I mean, her Books.

What have you done with your Memoirs? Pollock is about to edit Macready's. And Chorley--have you read him? I shall devour him in time--that is, when Mudie will let me.

I wonder if there are Water-cresses in America, as there are on my tea- table while I write?

What do you think of these two lines which Crabbe didn't print?

'The shapeless purpose of a Soul that feels, And half suppresses Wrath, {39} and half reveals.'

My little bit of Good News about our Friend is the only reason and Apology for this Letter from

Yours ever and always E. F.G.

XVI.

LOWESTOFT: _Febr._ 10/74.

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

A Letter to be written to you from the room I have written to you before in: but my Letter must wait till I return to Woodbridge, where your Address is on record. I have thought several times of writing to you since this Year began; but I have been in a muddle--leaving my old Markethill Lodgings, and vacillating between my own rather lonely Chateau, and this Place, where some Nieces are. I had wished to tell you what I know of our dear Donne: who Mowbray says gets on still. I suppose he will never be so strong again. Laurence wrote me that he had met him in the Streets, looking thinner (!) with (as it were) keener Eyes. That is a Portrait Painter's observation: probably a just one. Laurence has been painting for me a Copy of Pickersgill's Portrait of Crabbe--but I am afraid has made some muddle of it, according to his wont. I asked for a Sketch: he _will_ elaborate--and spoil. Instead of copying the Colours he sees and could simply match on his Palette, he _will_ puzzle himself as to whether the Eyebrows were once sandy, though now gray; and wants to compare Pickersgill's Portrait with Phillips'--which I particularly wished to be left out of account. Laurence is a dear little fellow--a Gentleman--Spedding said, 'made of Nature's very finest Clay.' {40} So he is: but the most obstinate little man--'incorrigible,' Richmond called him; and so he wearies out those who wish most to serve and employ him; and so has spoiled his own Fortune.

Do you read in America of Holman Hunt's famous new Picture of 'The Shadow of Death,' which he has been some seven Years painting--in Jerusalem, and now exhibits under theatrical Lights and accompaniments? This does not induce me to believe in H. Hunt more than heretofore: which is--not at all. Raffaelle, Mozart, Shakespeare, did not take all that time about a work, nor brought it forth to the world with so much Pomp and Circ.u.mstance.

Do you know Sainte Beuve's Causeries? I think one of the most delightful Books--a Volume of which I brought here, and makes me now write of it to you. It is a Book worth having--worth buying--for you can read it more than once, and twice. And I have taken up Don Quixote again: more Evergreen still; in Spanish, as it must be read, I doubt.

Here is a Sheet of Paper already filled, with matters very little worthy of sending over the Atlantic. But you will be glad of the Donne news, at any rate. Do tell me ever so little of yourself in return.

Now my Eyes have had enough of this vile steel pen; and so have yours, I should think: and I will mix a Gla.s.s of poor Sherry and Water, and fill a Pipe, and think of you while I smoke it. Think of me sometimes as

Yours always sincerely, E. F.G.